


Accents Yet Unknown

by pauraque



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-27
Updated: 2004-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many ages hence / Shall this our lofty scene be acted over, / In states unborn and accents yet unknown!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accents Yet Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> For Chresimos.

Cassius lets his fingers brush against the dry stucco of the cobbler's shop, not wanting to cut across the middle of the busy square. As he rounds the corner, the hazy urban sun glares into his eyes; he squints against it. Two children play a chasing game around the fountain, darting in and out among the legs of indifferent merchants. They throw cupped handfuls of water at each other, shouting and laughing, their sandals kicking up the dust.

The little girl dodges and knocks into Cassius' hip, spilling her water all down his thigh. He lets out a sharp curse and seizes her by the sleeve— she looks terrified.

'Watch where you're going,' he hisses.

'Have a care, brother.'

Cassius turns, and there stands Marcus Brutus, wearing a faint smile. The girl struggles out of his grip and dashes away after her playmate.

'The bite that pops inflated senators  
is over-sharp to chide a careless child,' Brutus says, offering his arm.

Cassius takes it after a moment's hesitation. Some kind of warmth blossoms in him, even compared to the stifling heat of the day, and emerges as a restrained smirk.

'The frail are as apt to be corrected,  
think you not?'

Brutus shakes his head in an amused, helpless shrug, and wipes his wrist across his reddened brow. There's something of Junia about him in that. Cassius shakes off the odd twinge he feels at the thought, and draws a breath through his nose— the humid green smell of the fountain, water evaporating from stone.

'I hope there is no blood between us two,' Brutus says, waving his hand absently as if to fan himself, or maybe to dispel the whiff of drying manure from the farrier's across the square.  
'Had Caesar asked my thoughts on your good name...'

Yes, Brutus is first praetor now. (Cassius remembers Caesar's knowing smile, the way his fingertips lingered over Brutus' broad wrist in the cool, airy Senate chamber.)

'Ah... no. The— the fault was not your own.'

Brutus frowns a bit, but it passes. 'That's good.' He takes Cassius lightly by the elbow (in this heat, how can his palm be so dry?) and leans in closer to his ear. 'Take care,' he says, 'with my dear sister.'

'Ay,' Cassius says, and it comes out voiceless.

Cloth brushes past Cassius' shins as Brutus turns to go. Cassius watches as he disappears among the shouting fishmongers, and the soles of his feet itch as if to press him forward. A busker squeezes by with his cithara slung over his shoulder and knocks into Cassius' arm; he barks out a laughing apology as he passes.

Cassius merely rubs his eyes and ducks under the cobbler's awning into the faint shadows— not really cooler than being directly in the sun. He has a house to dine at this afternoon, and he cannot be late.


End file.
